A Little Fall of Rain
by Amrunofthesummercountry
Summary: AU What if, perhaps, Frodo leaving for the Grey Havens was simply a clever metaphor? Frodo's illness gets the better of him. Character deathtissue warning.


A Little Fall of Rain

A/N: This fic is the evil result of a plot bunny that bit me while I was sitting in rehearsal for Les Miserables. We were running through the song "A Little Fall of Rain" and the bunny bit me and refused to let go until I set to work on this fic. Its written in a style that is a bit different than my normal style, and needless to say I'm a bit nervous about posting it. Now, I know that in the book Frodo really did sail away to the Grey Havens so this would technically be an AU. Thanks again to VR for betaing!

Warning: Character death/tissue alert.

******************************************************************************

A Little Fall of Rain

Distant thunder thrummed outside of Bag End but inside all was quiet save the incessant scratching of a quill on paper and the occasional mutter from the writer. Samwise Gamgee, Mayor of the Shire, Elf Friend, and former Ring-bearer sat at the writing desk, broad shoulders hunched over his paper and face pinched in concentration. He had sat at this desk in the same position with the same quill for many, many days and now at long last his work was nearly finished. He finished the word he was penning in a few quick strokes then retrieved a fresh piece of paper, ready to begin a new chapter. The final chapter. 

_"The Ringbearer's Farewell"_

Thunder sounded again and now rain began to fall as Sam finished the chapter title. He paused, pen hovering over the parchment, and looked out the window. Water spattered the sill rhymically. Sam smiled grimly. How appropriate that it was raining on this day, when he was to write the final chapter, when he was to write how Frodo had passed from Middle Earth. It had been raining that day, too. It had been raining all those years ago when Frodo had said his final farewell to the land and friend he loved...

***************************************************************************

Sam always dreaded the arrival of autumn. As soon as warm August faded to cool September, Frodo would begin to show the first symptoms of the "sickness" (as the doctors who tended Frodo called it. They didn't know the truth, couldn't know the truth.) In early September, when the days were still long and the air was still warm it may be something subtle, a vacant look during supper perhaps, or maybe a slight tremble in the left hand. As the air turned more chill the nightmares would begin, terrible things that left Frodo screaming and flailing around in his bed until Sam restrained him. 

Then the searching would start. On more than one occasion Sam and Rosie were jolted awake to the sound of drawers being overturned and cabinets being rifled through. Every time Sam would leap from his bed, and, with Rosie trailing behind him, rush to whatever room Frodo was systematically taking apart. Frodo never seemed to be truly awake during these fits; he didn't seem to notice Sam or Rosie even if they spoke to him and he muttered to himself, cursing as he could not locate the object he was missing. 

"Where is it, where is it!? Where have I put it? It is lost, lost! Where is it....where is it...."

The fits frightened Rosie horribly; she would stand in the door way with her hands over her mouth and tears swimming in her eyes as she watched. Sam would comfort her the best he was able, but his own heart broke more and more with ever occurrence. After Frodo finally settled down or, more often, exhausted himself and passed out, Sam would carry his broken master to his bedroom and return him to bed. Then Sam and Rosie would clean up whatever mess Frodo had made. The former ring bearer never remembered his late night searches and Sam was determined to keep it that way.

By the end of September Frodo was constantly pale and tired. He tried to hide it, telling a concerned Rosie that he looked peaked because he had been up late the previous night, writing out a few more chapters in the Red Book; or that he had already eaten and that was why he wasn't hungry. But Sam knew better. One night he had peeked into Frodo's room before going to bed. His master was indeed sitting at his desk with the Red Book open, but his head was bowed and his shoulder shook terribly. As Sam watched, Frodo let out a frustrated cry and began kneading his left shoulder with his right hand, making tiny sounds of suppressed pain. Sam had said his master's name cautiously, and Frodo had spun, blood shot eyes focusing on Sam. 

"I am burning, Sam!" Frodo had exclaimed. "Burning always! I'll never escape these flames....."

Sam had rushed to him then, and taken his trembling master into his arms, and whispered comforting words to him. As Sam ran his hands through Frodo's curls he noticed that Frodo really *was* burning. A fever had sunk deep into the former ring bearer's body, making him as hot as if the very fire of Mount Doom had invaded him. Sam had sat up with Frodo all night, giving him sips of water just as he had all those months before in the land of Mordor. The doctor had been called the next day and gave the Gamgees a tonic for Frodo, but Sam had taken one sniff of it and put it aside, choosing instead to search through the hole until he found the small pouch of athelas leaves that the King himself had sent with his blessing. These Sam had boiled in water and then given to Frodo to breath in. It had helped some, and the fever was gone the next day. 

Sam dreaded this fall just as much as he had previous ones, but this year he had another little being to worry about. Little Elanor needed near constant care, as all babies did, and Sam and Rosie often had little spare time. Frodo adored the little hobbit child, and would frequently offer to keep an eye on her for an hour or so, so that her exhausted parents might have time for themselves. On one such evening, Rosie and Sam had returned to find Frodo asleep in his chair, with Elanor's cradle beside him and the Red Book laying open on his lap. Sam had been frozen in place by the sight, and he had felt that he had never loved his master more than in that moment of innocent peace. 

The next day the coughing had started. Sam first noticed at breakfast, when Frodo suddenly had begun to cough quietly, as if he had something stuck in his throat. He said as much when Sam asked if he was alright, but the coughing continued through the day, and then all through the night, and then again the next morning. Sam suggested that they give the doctor another call but Frodo grew agitated and insisted that he merely had caught a cold and would be fine within a few days. The coughing did not abate, though now Frodo tried to suppress it, something that made his chest hitch and his shoulders shudder as he sat at the dinner table on those autumn nights. Sam did not suggest calling a doctor again (knowing full well just how stubborn his dear Frodo could be), but he did add a few athelas leaves to his master's bath each night and he also put extra blankets on his master's bed (to keep the chill out, he said). If Frodo noticed either of these things, he said nothing of it. 

It was the coughing that drew Sam out to the garden on that day, on that unforgettable day that was to be Frodo's last in the Shire. It was near sunset, and thunder was rolling lazily in the distance. A storm was coming out from the sea; Sam could see the rain clouds gathering from the kitchen where he was finishing up the dishes. Rosie was tending to the baby, and Sam thought he ought to make sure Frodo had a fire going in his room, especially if it was to rain. The rain always aggravated Frodo's shoulder. The dishes were finished, and the fire was started in Frodo's bedroom, but Frodo himself was not there. In fact, Sam could not seem to find him anywhere inside Bag End. Sam walked up and down the hallways, calling Frodo's name softly, but no answer came. Sam's stomach began to knot itself with anxiety as he doubled back to the kitchen, now calling Frodo a little louder and a little more frantically. Still, there was no answer.

A sudden gust of September wind blew open the kitchen window, sending dry, crumbling leaves dancing onto the floor. Sam jumped, startled, then chuckled nervously to himself and muttered "Naught but a bit of wind; no surprise with this storm a-foot." He went to the open shutters, which were now swinging gently back and forth in the breeze, and raised slightly shaking hands to close them. Yet just when he was about to latch the shutters shut, a sound stopped him. From out in the garden came the sound of harsh, thick coughing, and unmistakable sound.

Quickly, Sam reopened the window and leaned his head out, leaning his hands on the sill. "Mr. Frodo?" He called. Another gust of wind hissed in Sam's face and he withdrew into the kitchen, forehead creased with worry. Why in heaven's name would Frodo be outside when the air was so cold and rain was coming? And with that cough! Perhaps he was confused again...

Sam left the kitchen, leaving the window still open in his haste, and made his way outside to the gardens, grabbing his cloak as he went. The air was cold as Sam passed through the gate that led around back (it still squeaked loudly, despite all Sam's attempts to oil it.) He passed the vegetable garden (most of the vegetables had already been harvested), walked down the stone path that was lined with wildflowers (Elanor would play in those flowers, one day), stepped around a wheel barrow he had neglected to put away that afternoon, and brushed past the rose bush that was planted under Frodo's bedroom window. There was still no sign of the ring bearer himself, but Sam could still hear him coughing and, now, singing quietly. 

_"Still round the corner there may wait_

A new road or a secret gate;

And though I oft have passed them by,

A day will come at last when I

Shall take the hidden paths that run

West of the Moon, East of the Sun..."

The words trailed off and Sam, who had been stilled on the path by the mournful tone of the words, heard his Master let out a short, hitching sob. This sprang Sam back into action and he hurried down the path and around the corner. There, amid dying flowers and browned leaves, stood Frodo, left arm hanging limply at his side, right hand clutching the white gem that the Queen of Gondor had given him. He had no cloak on, nor a jacket, but he didn't shiver. He looked towards the setting sun, his face streaked with silver tears and his chest hitching with sobs and shuttering coughs. Thunder grumbled, and Frodo closed his eyes and let out a breath. Sam took a step towards him. 

"Mr. Frodo?" He ventured. Frodo did not open his eyes and at first Sam did not think his master had heard him. "Mr. Frodo, you'd best come inside now. There's a storm coming; I've a fire going in your room for you. Won't you come in?" 

"Across the sea...." Frodo whispered so quietly that Sam had to strain to hear him.

"Frodo?" Sam asked, more worried than ever now. 

"It is time to sail!" Frodo exclaimed, opening his eyes and looking up at the gray sky. His voice was hoarse from the strain his lungs put on his throat. "The storm, it shall take me to the Havens. I shall soar in the clouds and sleep in the stars, just like Earendil, and I shall be free, free! And the rain will wash away what's past, and-" He was cut short by an coughing fit, which left him doubled over and gasping for air. With a cry Sam ran to Frodo and put an arm around his master's shoulders to steady him. The gardener felt with a gasp that Frodo's left shoulder was ice cold; Sam could feel the chill even through the fabric of Frodo's shirt. 

"Mr. Frodo, my dear Frodo, your shoulder! Its-"

"Sam?" Frodo sounded confused. He raised his head slowly and looked into his friend's face, eyes focusing on Sam's slowly. "You're here! I'd thought you would not come. But that was silly, was it not? You always come. You always...." He trailed off and opened his right hand to gaze down at the white gem held there. It's silver sparkle reflected off Frodo's crystalline eyes, making it look as if he had stars in his eyes. He blinked suddenly, and a river of tears began to cascade down his cheeks. 

"Frodo..." Sam breathed. 

Frodo closed his eyes again and closed his hand back around the gem. He hugged it close to his chest and then leaned into Sam's strong arm. "May we go home now, Sam? The sun is setting; Bilbo shall be worried if we are not back once it is dark."

Sam bit his lower lip. His poor Master was confused again. "We are home, Mr. Frodo. We're in the garden at Bag End, in the Shire. Your bedroom's not ten feet from here. Oh, won't you come inside, Mr. Frodo? Its going to rain...."

"Rain?" Frodo mused as if the word was foreign to him. As if in response, thunder rolled again. Frodo reopened his eyes and looked up. "Rain now?" Then his breath caught in his chest and he was sent reeling once again as the coughing seized his frail body. Sam held him and rubbed his back soothingly as he wheezed and jolted, caught in the grips of whatever illness was doing this to him. After several minutes the coughing abated, and Frodo straightened up. Sam supported his companion gently, whispering words of comfort. Frodo swayed, then turned his face towards Sam. A streak of bright crimson stained Frodo's lips and trailed along his chin. Sam gasped, horrified, and looked down at the ground. It was speckled with dark spots of blood. Frodo's blood. 

"Oh Frodo..."Sam sobbed, his heart breaking. "Oh Frodo, why didn't you say something.....why didn't you tell your Sam...."

"My Sam...." Frodo whispered. "It shall be fine; don't you see? Rain....can't hurt me now...." Then his legs gave out and he sagged in Sam's arms. Blinded by his tears, Sam sank to the ground, cradling his dear one in his arms. 

"Frodo, me dear, how can I help?" Sam could scarcely speak, what for the sobs that wracked him. "How can I make you better?"

"Sam...you are here...."

"I'm here," Sam repeated, leaning forward to better hear the whispered words. 

"Always here....dearest Samwise....do not cry...please. Not for me." Frodo winced and Sam's arms tightened around him protectively. 

"Not cry for you!" Sam exclaimed. "Not cry for you....then I'll cry for me then, sir, and for little Elanor and for Rosie, and all the flowers and stars and sunny days and songs that won't mean anything without you." 

"Won't they, Sam? Won't the flowers be just as beautiful without me to smell them? Won't the stars shine just as brightly without me to count them? Won't the sun be just as warm without...without..." Frodo coughed again, this time wheezing as he drew in breath. 

Sam shook his head frantically, hugging Frodo to his chest. "Never." Then more strongly: "Never!" 

Thunder boomed loudly. The storm was close, very close. 

"But Sam...." Frodo gasped. "You shall heal.....you shall feel the sun on your face....you shall count the stars...you shall play with Elanor and Frodo-lad and Goldilocks and all the rest....and I shall see and love you still." 

Sam shook his head stubbornly, but Frodo did not appear to see him. Slowly, as if the effort pained him, he extended his right arm towards Sam. "The Lady..." he began, then swallowed thickly and tried again. "The Lady lent this to me. She said it would bring me comfort and so it has. I pass it......" A wince. "I pass it to you, dearest Sam, along with all else that I have or would have had. Please....please take it and be happy." His hand shook with weakness, and Sam put his own hands around his master's, but did not take the necklace. Frodo's eyes locked onto Sam's. They pleaded with the gardener, begged him wordlessly to fulfill this last request. Sam swallowed and finally took the white gem from Frodo's outstretched hand. 

"Thank you Sam." Frodo smiled weakly, then turned his eyes back towards the sky. "They are sailing....sailing...far over the sea....do you see them Sam?" He raised his right arm once again, reaching up towards the clouds. Sam followed his master's gaze, but there was nothing to see. 

"Frodo....its too soon........" Sam whispered. 

"They've come, Sam. They did not leave me to take the journey alone....they shall carry me across the sea.......far, over the sea...." 

Frodo's breathing began to slow. He smiled up at the clouds as thunder sounded again. 

"Sam...." he whispered, lowering his arm and reaching over for his dearest companion, keeping his eyes fixed on the ghostly escort that only he could see. Sam looked at the gem he held in his hand, then took Frodo's hand in his free one and kissed the fingers gently. 

"Go...." Sam whispered. "Go to them..."

The words hovered in the air as the clouds broke at last and soft drops of rain began to fall gently. Sam drew in a deep, shuddering breath and held it, keeping his eyes transfixed on Frodo's face. Rainwater, clean and pure, washed away the blood and tearstains from Frodo's face and mingled with the tears on Sam's face. Frodo coughed again, less frantic this time, and gave Sam's hand a weak squeeze. "_Ú i vethed... nâ i onnad..." _

Then the light faded from Frodo's eyes like a ship disappearing into the horizon as Samwise watched, and with a sigh Frodo's chest ceased to rise and fall. Sam let out the breath he had been holding in a heart wrenching sob. His Frodo had gone at last beyond his call, and though Sam held his master to him and cried his name over and over Frodo did not return. The rain beat down on the garden as thunder moaned, but the former ring bearer slept undisturbed at last.

__

~And you will keep me safe...and you will keep me close...and rain...will make the flowers.......grow.~

************************************************

Sam wiped a lone tear from his cheek and shook himself from his recollections. The parchment was still blank save for the chapter title and Sam stared at it for a moment, unsure of how to begin. The words stared back. 

"I know what the problem is...." Sam muttered to himself. "s'not a proper end to a tale like this; leastways it won't be to the folk who read it. Mr. Frodo wouldn't have it; nor Mr. Bilbo neither." 

Smiling slightly to himself, Sam dipped his quill into the black ink and scratched out the first title. Then, in careful strokes he penned in the new title.

_"The Grey Havens._"

************************************************

__

Ú i vethed... nâ i onnad..: This is not the end, its the beginning (Borrowed from TTT's "Evenstar.")

Lyrics from Les Miserables. Andrew Loyd Weber: composer

::whistles:: ::looks around sheepishly:: Ahem....well....ta! ::runs from stick wielding reviewers:::


End file.
